Always Coming Home
by Charis M
Summary: Sometimes it seems I've been watching him forever. Quistis Trepe's reflections following the game's conclusion lead her to a meeting with the one who once had perhaps, once upon a time, been her dearest student.


v3.0 

**Always Coming Home**

Disclaimer: Characters are not mine. Characters belong to Squaresoft. I'm just borrowing them for a little wreaking of havoc. Thank you for your patience.

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Sometimes it seems I've been watching him forever. 

I could, certainly. Unattainable, and despite - or perhaps because of - this, my heart still yearns towards him. Our emotions are one thing we can never truly control; look at Squall. Hard as ice, he tried to be, and yet the little Sorceress melted his heart in a flash.

Do they know I envy her? At first I thought it was for holding Squall's love; I fancied him once, turned to him for comfort when they took my Instructor's license away, but wasn't enough to break that shell. After a while I thought it to be a more general envy: she knew love, when all I had - all I've ever had - was longing. I've come to realise that, while both of these might be true, the core of my envy draws from the fact that _he_ once loved her. Does he still? Does his heart continue to yearn for her? Is his jealousy where Squall is concerned made all the more potent by her devotion to him?

Let her go, Almasy; she will never return to you. Find yourself another, turn your heart to a new horizon.

It's easier to say than it is to believe.

I don't know what he and Rinoa shared; I only know that the way he still looks at her sometimes, when he thinks no one is watching, twists claws through the pit of my stomach. Despair, envy ... I hate to admit to either, yet there is more truth to them than anyone knows. He and Squall aren't the only ones with masks: mine is just more commonplace. The competent instructor, the stoic soldier - always business. And why not? When I let my walls down and set the masks aside, become something other than a creation of my duties, all that is left to me is pain. I've hurt too many times to let them down again.

And yet for him, sometimes I think I would ...

But that's foolishness, Trepe, and you know it. Hard enough for one person to put away the masks for even a little while; how much harder, then, for two who've always worn them? If you don't trust yourself enough to do it, then how can you ask it of another?

It's late now, though; the violins are still playing inside, but the notes are growing softer as the song winds to its inevitable conclusion. With it, too, will come the end of this evening, the end of my diversions. Tomorrow it is back to classes, to the routine of being SeeD. Back to being responsible, dependable Quistis Trepe. Back to the masks and the walls that never come down. I was hoping tonight would be a reprieve, but we seldom get that which we wish for.

Despite that all, I don't want this night to end. I'm quite comfortable here on the balcony, the music washing over me and out into the starlit expanse beyond. In this space, it seems I stand between time and space, caught in the moment, not needing to worry over what tomorrow might bring. Soft darkness swathes my heart in its oblivion, and for this moment I can forget all the pain.

There's an irony to that. Though the Guardian Forces cause us to forget, they can't take away memory entirely. Events, situations, relationships - but I think the heart remembers even when the mind does not. A blessing and a curse, that: you remember joy without knowing why, but the unreasoned pain lingers as well. Would I give up one to be freed from the other?

Sometimes I think I would.

Sometimes I think I'd do anything to get rid of the pain.

Other times, though, I know I wouldn't. I welcome it sometimes; it's a reminder of the fact that I still feel. That, unlike so many others, I've retained that capacity.

There's something oddly poetic about it, that my failures and my loves should be so wrapped up around each other. Woven in and around, inextricable ... I can never quite look at either without feeling those pangs rise within me once again. Desire wars with regret, rage with compassion, hatred with pain. I don't know what to do.

That's what bothers me most, I think. I'm used to being in control. Not, perhaps, in the manner of control some people exercise, over each other - but at the very least in control of _myself_. When I feel those emotions, though - that bitter envy, that equally bitter despair - I'm not in control. Maybe it would be easier if I could simply scream and get it over with. Things are never easy, though; not the things that prove to be worth having. Even if you can't have them ...

I have adoration, though. I have the Trepies, who look up to me as though I was - something more than merely human. Why can't I be content with their adulation instead of complaining like a spoiled child?

I don't have the answer to that either.

So I'll just stand here in the shadows like I am right now and watch the stars and pretend I don't notice that the violin-strings have stilled and people are retiring, singly or in pairs or small knots, leaving me here alone. It doesn't matter if I choose to stay; I'm an instructor again and I can do as I please. Besides, out here the night muffles the loneliness, makes it feel so very far away and unreal. Inside, with the pressures of social obligation, I can't forget it.

The lights inside the grand ballroom and all over the Garden dim in preparation for night and the inception of curfew - for no matter how festive the eve, the rules remain. Darkness drops, thick and heavy, as I fold my arms upon the cool marble of the balcony railing and rest my chin upon them. Presently there is only the murmuring sound of crickets and cicadas and my own breathing -

- and abruptly the tinny thump of boot heels on marble. I don't turn. I don't have to.

"Seifer."

"Instructor." Cool and slightly mocking, the words wound. Does he only humour me? Did I misunderstand when I thought I saw in his eyes some faint spark of caring? "Still playing the wallflower? The festival is over; there's no need to keep hiding."

Somehow I manage to retain politeness, gesture simply at the stars. No words seem necessary; the answer is plain enough. In the chill beauty beyond the Garden walls lies something I feel a kinship to. Stars always manage to keep a hard-edged brilliance from so very great a distance, an art I only wish I could master. Though I don't turn away from them, it seems I can sense the faint mirthless smile that plays across his features. Yes ... surely it was only for his own amusement that moment's sympathy showed. For all I once thought of you, Seifer Almasy, for all the evidence of kindness you may show to others, it's clear that there is none of that where I am concerned. I should like to think what they have seen was as much a facade as I encountered. That prospect is far less of a painful one than the alternative: that he thinks so low of me that he will never show me even occasional politeness.

Funny, how we're two of a kind ...

Click, click, click as he paces nearer, leaning on the railing beside me, turning his gaze skyward as well. I sneak a glance out of the corner of my eye at his profile before hurriedly resuming my stargazing. What must surely creep past my mask when I look at him is something he must never see. Not with his attitude towards me.

"Shouldn't you be doing something constructive?" the words come out sharper than I intend.

I see just the barest edge of his grin, gone so swiftly I'm almost certain I imagined it. "Like disciplining the errant children? No, Instructor; I _am_ doing something constructive, hard as it may be for you to imagine that."

A harsh response, perhaps, but deserved. Able to make neither head nor tail of his meaning, I shrug - a gesture which could mean anything in the world - and ignore him. Or at least try to. Whatever one might say of Seifer Almasy, none can deny that he has a forceful presence, and I am no more immune to it than any. The silence stretches interminably until finally, unable to bear it any longer, I break it.

"What brings you out here?"

It is his turn to shrug now. I read something of impatience upon those strong features, a hint of internal conflict before he asks, "Was I ever your dearest student?"

The question catches me off-guard; I turn in my surprise and blink almost owlishly at him. "Where did that come from?"

"Just answer the question," he growls.

He doesn't need to tell me, though; I know. I remember all too well him asking me whether he was that, right before battle an eternity ago. I remember my ambiguous response equally well: _Not anymore_. This question, though, is different. Not whether he still is, but whether at any point in time he might have been ...

I have to consider it. He and Squall were both in my tutelage at the same time, just two of countless students who passed through my classroom. Two of my best, yes, there is no denying that - but best and dearest are not necessarily the same. I should like to flatter myself into thinking I never played favourites; in fact, I was almost harder upon those students I liked, expecting more from them. The question remains, though - ever ?

Why does he ask me this now? Does he need it affirmed for him that, despite everything that's happened, at one point people thought more of him than they did of Squall? I study his face intently, hoping for some clue as to his motivations, but nothing escapes.

Thinking back to those days in the classroom - and how it seems as though it were both yesterday and infinitely far past - I remember him as he was when he first came to us. It was odd, teaching a student who was my senior, but that wasn't what was hardest about teaching Seifer. Nor, in all honesty, was it his predilection for bullying and wanting - needing - to be in charge. No ... what was hardest of all those years was keeping distant. I'd never been attracted to one of my students before, and while some might not hesitate to enter into such relationships, I always felt I had to keep things strictly business. I used to call it scruples. Now I call it fear. Whatever the cause, whatever the name, it made me push him all the harder, fearing my own reaction to him. I was at the time not only in the first flush of womanhood and thus entirely too susceptible to a handsome face or a pleasant figure, but also far too new to my duties - and consequently all the more vulnerable.

But that is neither here nor there, and as I bring my attention back to the present, I find him watching me, still waiting for my answer. Finally I nod, "Yes."

Elation washes over his face for the briefest of instants, followed by relief, then both are gone just as swiftly. The most infinitesimal hint of openness remains in their wake as he says, almost musingly, "I was sure you hated me sometimes."

I look at him quizzically, awaiting clarification; after a moment he elaborates, "You were - cold - so often; it seemed like nothing I could do was ever enough to earn your praise. Even when it was given ..." He trails off and I recognise the expression - the fear of having said too much. I can't blame him. In his place, I'd be terrified.

The moon is just rising; its soft light brightens the darkness of the balcony, giving him a soft halo. Everything seems washed out and muted in that glow, surreal, and I wonder - for a wild moment - whether it might be easier said and done. This feels, after all, so very like a dream world that it seems I need not fear the consequences of what I say. Impulsively I reach out, grab his hand and head for the door,

"Come on."

He raises an eyebrow in mute question but follows me nevertheless, allowing himself to be led. Along the corridors we go, past the silent figures of the Garden sentinels, and into the training facility. By now he surely must know where we are headed, though he still keeps his peace; I do not look back, afraid of losing my courage. Not until we reach the secret spot do I release his hand, feeling a slightly guilty flush stain my cheeks. I hope, in the moonlight and shadows, he cannot see it.

The area is empty; it seems the Disciplinary Committee has done its work tonight - or that amorous couples have found other places to be. Here, too, the stars filter overhead, the moon sits fat and full on the horizon, casting a benevolent eye upon the Garden. Seifer sits down on an empty bench, leans back against the wall and watches me. "Well? What're we here for, Instructor? Certainly you didn't bring me here to -"

I railroad over whatever he was going to say, feeling the colour flame brighter. After all, the devious part of my mind has cooked up far to many prospects of what I'd _like_ to do with him; it doesn't need the encouragement.

"I ... owe you an apology, Seifer."

Once again the eyebrow lifts, but he lets me continue without interruption.

"As your Instructor, I feel I was ... unjustly harsh, at times." It takes far more effort than I like to get the words out; they come slowly, that I not embarrass myself further by tripping over them in my haste to get them out and done. "The fault was mine. I'm sorry."

"Because I was an arrogant bastard?"

His words are mocking, though whether directed at me or self-derisive I cannot say. I shake my head in response.

"Because I was overcompensating for what I might do."

A steely gaze rakes me in frank assessment, and for a moment I am certain I am in for another of his scathing replies. Then something glitters in his eyes and before I have a chance to wonder what it is, he's risen from the bench with all the coiled swiftness of a striking viper and his lips slant over mine. There is something fierce and insistent about the kiss that I couldn't deny even if I wanted to - and Hyne, I don't, not when I've dreamed of it, waited for it so long! My arms come up to twine about his neck as I kiss him back wholeheartedly. My heart crows with delight: _I was right, I was _right

How can something spiral into eternity and yet be over in a mere instant? I'm left wondering that as he pulls back for air. The kiss has left us both breathless, trembling. Sometime during the kiss one of his arms wrapped about my waist. The other, which had twined in my hair, he brings to cup my chin, lifting it as I look down.

"Quistis ..."

I cannot remember the last time he called me by name. His eyes seem very dark as he looks down at me; I somehow am unable - unwilling- to tear my gaze away. There is a vulnerability in them that I've never before found in Seifer Almasy, almost as if he, too, is afraid that this is all a dream that will disappear if either of us speaks too loudly. My thoughts, just now catching up to what my heart seems to have already realised, wonder if he _did_, then, feel something and it wasn't simply the by-product of wishful imaginings.

"... I've wanted to do that forever," he whispers almost reverently before his lips come down upon mine again. This time the kiss is scarce begun when a loud crash comes from outside the passage leading to this secluded nook. He tears away, cursing; two steps ahead of him, I've already darted through the passage and back into the training grounds. Though my mind conjured up the worst, it is only a commonplace occurrence: several of the trainees and their mentor standing over a vanquished T-Rexaur. I manage to compose myself, resolutely not placing too much though into how I must look, and give them a polite nod before heading back for the entrance. Seifer falls into step beside me as I walk, chuckling.

"Do you know," he says in a conversational undertone, "I was tempted to finish what that monster started to express my thanks."

Stopping here would be foolish unless I want a workout; I look up at him as we stride along, quizzical, and his smile is genuine. "Ah, Quisty - if it hadn't been for their interruption, we might still be back there, and I might be able to find out just how serious you were about kissing me back."

This time I am certain my blush is visible. "Seifer, I -"

We've reached the corridor outside the training centre now and as the doors slide shut behind us, he takes my hand and pulls me to one side. His eyes seem very dark as he looks down at me; I somehow am unable - unwilling- to tear my gaze away. "What I want right now, more than anything else the world might offer me, is to take you back to your room and find out just what the might-have-beens you were overcompensating for were." He traces my chin with one finger; I find myself surprised at the gentleness of his touch, and there is again that surprising vulnerability in his voice as he goes on, "I'll understand if you turn me down, after all that's happened since those days, but I was hoping -"

"Shh ..." I lay a finger along his lips, then transfer my mouth to the job of silencing him, attempting with all my being to silence whatever doubts he might harbour. This time I break off the kiss abruptly, knowing full well I've left him unfulfilled. With a smile - the motion of those muscles feeling odd after keeping a bland face for so long - I lead him down the corridor towards the dormitories and my room there. "Promise you'll show me what else you've wanted to do forever?"

His answering smile is like the light of a thousand suns, and my heart sings to know it is for me and me alone. "And more."

And like children sneaking out after bedtime, we race through the corridors on silent feet and when, a long time later, we finally fall asleep in each other's arms, I realise just how much truth there is in that phrase I once saw on a needlework sampler in a Balamb-town shop. Home _is_ where the heart is.

_- finis -_

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Author's Notes: Yes, it's übercampy; I make no apologies for that. It was intended to be a romantic fic, and it's perishing hard to write in that genre without being campy. I'm not entirely happy with the ending; please let me now what you think of this? It's been far too long since I wrote a fanfic, especially with a genre I'm less familiar with than I should like to be. This story just kind of happened, though, and I don't think I could have stopped it if I wanted to. I apologise for any and all inconsistencies between this and the "real" FFVIII world; someone hit me the next time I write a fic before finishing the game, yes? 


End file.
